SPILLED BLOOD
by SupernaturallyEgocentric
Summary: Sam and Dean are alone in a cabin in the forest, waiting for their father to come back. Where is John? And what else is waiting with them? Warnings for violence, major angst and potty mouth. Warning for a not-nice John. Teenchester.


"_God_, Dean, you are such an _ass_," Sam shouted in frustration.

"Yeah, well, at least I'm not boring," Dean retorted, shoving the rest of his sandwich into his mouth. He made sure to keep his mouth open as he chewed, giving Sam the full effect.

"If studying hard so I don't have to do this shit for the rest of my life means I'm boring, then I'm _happy_ to be boring!" Scowling, Sam shoved his plate away, snatched his can of soda off the table and stomped out of the kitchen, heading for the front door.

"Sam, Dad said not to go outside!" Dean called after him.

"Who gives a fuck!"

The door slammed behind him, hard.

OOOOOOOOOO

Two weeks!

_Two - freaking - weeks! _

Two weeks in the ass end of nowhere, waiting for Dad to come back!

Two weeks Sam could've been going to school back in Bend, finishing out his sophomore year and hanging out with the few friends he'd managed to make there.

Two weeks he could've had a halfway normal freaking life!

_Damn_ it, why the hell had the man dragged them out into the middle of the freaking wilderness if all he wanted them to do was wait for him?

Just because he could? Just to show them who was boss?

Ignoring the steps, Sam jumped down off the porch into the yard. "I'm _sick_ of this shit!" he yelled at the top of his lungs. "Shit, shit, SHIT!"

Dean opened the door and watched as Sam paced frenziedly back and forth across the yard. "Sammy, come back inside."

Sam flipped him the bird.

"Sam!"

"Bite me!"

Dean flushed. "You know we're not supposed to go outside."

Sam laughed angrily. "Why?" He gestured wildly to the forest, which started up right outside their yard. "You afraid I'll run off? Where the _fuck_ would I go?!"

"You got quite the potty mouth going there, Sammy," Dean said tightly, trying to tamp down his temper. "What the hell are you so pissed about, anyway? How is this different from any other shithole we've been dumped in?"

"Are you kidding me?" Sam stared at him, incredulous. "That's the whole freaking point! There _is_ no difference!"

"Sam –"

"Why did he drag us up here? He could've left us in Bend, but no, for some insane reason he's got to dump us where we don't even have cell reception!" He flung an angry arm at his brother. "And you, you don't even care! When are you gonna start standing up for us, for _yourself_ – "

Stung, Dean glared at him. "There isn't anything we can do about it, Sammy," he snapped. "So just suck it up and stop being such a freaking pain in my ass!" He turned and went back into the house, slamming the door behind him.

"_Damn _it!"

Nearly incoherent with rage and frustration, Sam volleyed his soda at the nearest tree. It exploded in a spray of soda and froth and in the next instant a wendigo leapt out of that same tree with a startled shriek, landing just ten feet in front of Sam.

It would be hard to say who was more surprised. The two stared at each other for a long, frozen moment.

Then Sam spun for the house, the wendigo went for Sam, and Dean came out of the house, eyes wild and shotgun raised.

"Sammy, _drop_!"

Sam flung himself to the ground, arms over his head, as Dean fired.

The Wendigo leapt swiftly to the side, easily evading the blast, then swung back and hooked his claws into the back of Sam's shirt, dragging the boy off the ground and pulling him toward the tree line as a second blast from Dean's shotgun missed again.

"Sam!" Dean screamed, running after them. "_Sam_!"

With a guttural roar, the monster leapt into a tree, clawed hand sinking into the back of Sam's neck, dragging him roughly up after him.

Eyes almost starting out of his head, Sam gurgled and choked, kicking and punching at the creature, but the devil's grip was relentless and he was starting to lose blood, air and strength at a terrifying rate.

Desperate, mind whirling, frantic with fear, he lunged and looped both arms around the monster's legs, clutching hard, hoping to slow it down long enough for Dean to get another shot into him.

Stopping, the wendigo growled and slammed Sam hard against the tree trunk, knocking him out. Then it threw the boy's unconscious body over its shoulder and started to leap into the next tree.

"_Sam_!"

A bolt of fire shot through the air and tore through the monster's shrunken chest, narrowly missing Sam. The flames quickly blossomed and exploded, twisting over the creature.

With a horrific scream, the wendigo released Sam and he fell, striking Dean and sending them both to the ground, shotgun flying out of Dean's hands.

Stunned, only half aware of the death throes of the creature above him, Dean managed to lever himself to a sitting position. "Sammy?" he croaked, breathless.

His little brother, crumpled and pale on the ground beside him, didn't answer.

"Christ, _Sammy_!" Panicked, he put trembling fingers against Sam's neck, nearly weeping in relief when he felt the slow, but steady, pulse.

A sound, behind them, soft, unmistakable. Footsteps.

Dean spun to his feet, putting himself between Sam and this new threat. As his eyes met those of the new arrival, his mouth fell open in shock and relief.

"_Dad_?"

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

When he woke, Sam was in the room that served as his and Dean's bedroom.

_Hey. _

_I'm not dead._

_Huh. _

His eyes tracked uncertainly around the darkened room. It had been late morning when he'd had his encounter with the wendigo. It was night out now. The bedroom curtains were open and moonlight shone through the closed window.

_Dean_, Sam thought woozily. _Where's Dean?_

He shifted in bed, then drew in his breath with a sharp hiss.

_God_, he _hurt_.

Head, ribs, neck, _everything_ hurt. He thought vaguely about going back into sleep, but he was thirsty. And he had to pee.

More importantly, he needed to be sure his brother was okay.

Dean.

_Come on, get up. _

Setting his teeth, he sank his fingers into the mattress and hauled himself up, biting back a whimper of pain, and dragged his stiff as hell body down the hall to the bathroom. He peed. Drank two glasses of water. Tried not to fall down.

He was careful not to look too closely at the numerous bruises and contusions covering his body.

When he came out into the hall, he heard voices coming from the kitchen. Dean and - Dad?

Sam tottered back down the hall, past his bedroom and on to the kitchen, stopping just short of the door, listening to the argument inside.

And an argument it was, though John's voice never rose above its normal volume and Dean was obviously trying to keep his down.

"He'll be fine, Dean." John Winchester rumbled. "His ribs aren't broken and it doesn't look like he's got a concussion. He'll be up and around in a couple of days."

"A couple of _days_? Did you see the bruising?" Dean hissed. "His _neck_? "

"That monster was killing people, Dean, ten people over the last five years –

"And Sam could have been number eleven! Jesus, Dad, did you even _hesitate_ before you brought us out here? Did you think twice before hanging us out to fucking dry?"

Mind curiously blank, Sam took another unsteady step forward and looked into the kitchen.

His father sat at the kitchen table, whisker-stubbled face impassive. "He was never in any real danger, Dean."

"No real danger? Are you _kidding_ me?"

John's face darkened and he opened his mouth to retort but Dean rode over him. "That son of a bitch had him up a tree! He was dragging my baby brother, your _son_, into the woods _to_ _eat_ _him_! Do you not get that?"

John was silent.

"Protecting Sammy, Dad, that's my_ job_!" Dean continued agitatedly. "How the hell was I supposed to protect him? You took the flamethrowers with you! You didn't even tell us that thing was out there! Why didn't you tell us?"

"If he'd stayed inside like I told him to – " John started.

"So this is _Sammy's_ fault?" Dean's tone was thick with disbelief.

Sam stepped into the kitchen and the two older men froze, eyes on their youngest.

Recovering, Dean went to him, face anxious. "Sammy, you shouldn't be out of bed."

Sam ignored him, looking at his father.

As his eyes met those of his youngest son, an expression of - what, guilt, remorse? – flickered across John's face. Then it vanished and his expression was once more carefully blank.

"Let your brother take you back to bed, Sam," he said gruffly. "You need to rest."

Sam licked his lips. He had to try a couple of times before he could get the words out. "Dad, you did that? You used us as bait?"

John's lips tightened. "Go to bed, son."

A little flare of rage sparked to life in Sam's eyes, then died away. "Don't call me that," he said dully.

Shooting a glare at their father, Dean put an arm around Sam's slumped shoulders. "Come on, kid," he said soothingly. "I've got some awesome pain pills with your name all over 'em."

John watched them go.

Then he pulled a bottle of whiskey out of the cupboard, went into his own room, and shut the door behind him.

OOOOOOOOOO

With a constant murmuring stream of reassurance, Dean drugged Sam up good, made him drink a little more water and put him to bed. Trying not to jostle him, he lay down on the bed next to Sam, curling 'round him protectively.

Through it all, Sam said nothing, just stared back at him, the hurt and pain in his eyes ripping a jagged hole in Dean's heart.

"It's gonna be okay, Sammy," he said helplessly, petting his brother's hair back from his face. "I know it's bad, but I swear to you, I _swear_, it's gonna be okay!"

Heart black with despair, Sam closed his eyes.


End file.
